


Decorations, Secrets, and Forgiveness

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-12
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-14 02:38:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,547
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: Modern AU. Christine and Raoul have had a fight, but they still need to decorate for Christmas, and Christine is keeping a secret that she will only tell when Christmas morning comes.





	1. Détente

“I know we had a big fight,” she says, meeting his eyes defiantly as she sets the box of Christmas decorations down on the table in front of him, “but we still need to decorate the house for the holidays.”

“Christine—” Raoul attempts, but she cuts him off with a glare.

“Not another word on the matter. I am going to perform, and that’s that, and nothing you can say will change my mind on it. They’ve asked me, and it’s a great honour, and I know you want me here that night, but it’s for the best that I do it.” Her piece said, she begins taking tinsel out of the box. The tree will have to go up before she can hang any of it on, but she needs to take it out and untangle it. The tinsel is always getting tangled and it’s so—so _frustrating_ to have to deal with it every year. Someone should just go and invent some way to keep it from getting like this, the red and green all a knotted mess with the gold and the silver and the blue. At least the baubles know how to behave themselves, but there is no way for baubles to get tangled, only smashed or broken. And smashed or broken baubles are simply a part of life but there is no use in tangled tinsel.

The lights will be another battle. But she might leave them to Raoul, as punishment for his attempts at intervention. Serves him right for trying to persuade her out of performing. _But, darling, it’s our first married Christmas together._ _But darling, we should spend the evening together. But darling there’ll be next year to perform, and the year after. But darling but darling but darling_ over and over and she could not tell him that she will not be able to perform next year, or the year after. She could not tell him, because then she would have to tell him the reason _why_ , and she is saving _that_ as a surprise for Christmas Day itself.

He will be pleased with it. And excited. She can almost see the way his eyes will light up already…

“Okay, Christine.” He sighs, drawing her back to the present, to the tinsel still knotted in her hands. “Okay. If you want to perform, then that’s fine. I don’t mind. I just thought it would be nice, but if this is what you want then I’ll support you.”

She leans over the box of decorations, and kisses him gently on the cheek. “It is what I want. Oh, it is.”


	2. Confession

It is the first soft rays of light that stir her to wakefulness. They fall across her face, gentle and faint, and she sighs, presses herself closer to the man beside her. He does not stir, his breathing even and slow, and each breath makes her heart flutter, fills her with warmth. How blessed is she, to have him here beside her? More blessed than any woman in the world, surely. Doubly blessed, now, with him here and the little life growing inside of her. That precious, dear little life. There will not be so many more peaceful mornings of waking up like this, the misty sunlight on her face. Only a few months, a little more than half a year, and by this time next year…

By this time next year, she will have a little baby in her arms. A baby all of her own. She used to think, before she met Raoul, before they married, that having a baby was such a far-off possibility, outside the realm of thought. She was focused on her career, on trying to become known, but this last year has changed her so much, has seen her start as a fiancée, then become a wife. And now, she is not only a wife but she is expecting, and it is as if the whole world has changed and there is so much more to think of, so much more to consider.

But it is good.

It is very good.

She cannot help a slight smile, and then she hears a sigh, and feels a soft press of lips against her own. Raoul tastes slightly minty, like his own toothpaste from last night, and a chuckle bubbles in Christine’s throat. She was tired after the gala and party, and half-dozing as she brushed her teeth, so he took the brush off her and settled her on the edge of the bath, and brushed her teeth as if she were a child, his face mock-serious, and all she could think was, _it will be good practice for him._ The thought almost slipped out, almost gave the game away, but she restrained it and batted her lashes up at him.

“Whatever would I do without my hero?”

And he smiled, and kissed her on the tip of her nose. “Die of tooth decay, I would imagine.”

He kisses her again, now, on her forehead, and slips an arm under her to pull her closer. She nuzzles into his chest, and his fingers are gentle toying with her hair. “What has you so smiley this morning?” His voice is still groggy from sleep, and it is so very endearing to hear him, to feel the words under her ear rumbling in his chest.

“Because,” she lays her hand o his side, the cotton of his pyjama shirt soft beneath her fingertips. She was not going to tell him until tonight, until after dinner. She always pictured that they would be lying together on the couch, leaning into each other, the fire crackling and the light soft, and an old tape of classical music, something gentle with a lot of piano, playing, and she would whisper it to him, her hand over his heart, as if it were the most intimate secret in the world. But it seems… _right_ to tell him now, without any of that, just the two of them together on this light morning, and she draws a breath to steady the fluttering of her heart. “I have some news.”

“Oh?” She can hear the way he arches his brow just in how he utters the single word. “Please don’t say you’ve been offered a concert tour. I know it’s a wonderful opportunity, but I don’t think I could bear to be away from you so long when we’re not even a year married, and I’d hate to leave Philippe in the lurch to go with you when things are finally going okay.”

 _A concert tour? Wherever did he get a notion like that? This is so much bigger than a concert tour!_ But she keeps the thought from becoming words, and nuzzles into his chest. “Perhaps you could take a leave of absence for a little while, oh, around about next July.” And it is a struggle to keep the bubbling nervousness out of her voice. He will like her surprise, he will. He just…doesn’t realise that yet.

“Why next July?”

“Because,” and she opens her eyes, and shifts so that they are sharing the pillow and she is looking into his eyes, his sweet light blue eyes and, oh, she hopes their baby has those eyes, and she kisses his nose, “next July…is when,” and she draws another breath, “you’re going to become a daddy.” The words all come in a rush, and for a moment she is not certain he has made sense of them.

But then she hears the breath catch in his throat, and he swallows, blinks, his hand slipping down to lie flat on her belly. It is too soon, yet, for there to be any roundness, any sign, even though she has been watching for it closely, and after a long minute that seems to stretch into an eternity, his eyes searching hers, he inhales slowly. “What—Are you—Christine, really?” And she nods, hardly daring to breathe herself, and there are tears welling in his eyes. “Are you certain?”

“The doctor blood tests. There’s no doubt. Raoul—”

But he is laughing, laughing and kissing her, tears trickling down his cheeks, and tears prickle her own eyes, and she is laughing, and he is rolling her onto her back, lifting her shirt and kissing her belly, her still-flat belly. “I can’t believe it,” he whispers, “I can’t. It’s so—so unexpected. Oh, it’s wonderful, Christine!” And he is kissing her again, fully on the mouth, his tongue slipping between her lips. “You—are—amazing” and each word is punctuated with a kiss as she giggles.

“I didn’t do it on my own you know! You must have given it some help!”

And he is giggling now, as if he were a boy, and kissing all over her face. “This is the best Christmas present ever. You little minx! You knew all along, didn’t you? When you insisted on performing even though I didn’t want you to? You knew!”

“Of course.”

He grins down at her, his eyes shining. “And to think I was cross with you. I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”

She curls her hand around the nape of his neck, guides his head down and kisses him again. “I already have.”


End file.
